


Summer Skin & Winter Dreams

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, Road Trips, Stargazing, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Part I: A road trip leads to endings and new beginningsPart II: Six months later, you see him again in time for the New Year
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	1. summer skin

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously in my collection "brooklyn born" BUT it was out of place, so I wanted to post it separately :)  
> Hope you like it. Let me know what you think!

Dewy with sweat. Briny with exertion. Sweet and tangy and whipping through the car, chased by dry wind. Steve in the driver’s seat, Nat riding shotgun. Shades perched on her nose bridge. Red pout gloriously bright against the sunset backdrop.

There’s something poetic about a mid-June drive in a rickety car from 1992. Maroon burgundy with the paint peeling off. Dry snakeskin ridged cellophane on rolled down windows, crinkling a static refrain as it flaps violently against the glass pane.

The air conditioning doesn’t work, so you all make do with dry Arizona wind sweeping through. Blessedly, if it pleases, surging down the neckline of your shirts, cooling your backs for only a second. A small ice chest is under your foot, full of popsicles and Gatorades. The trash bag is shoved next to Bucky, overflowing with crushed plastic and stained wood sticks.

“You alright?”

A bead rolls down your brow, gets lost in the damp hair coiled by your ear. Bucky reaches over, taps on your foot and you pull back, letting him dig around in the icebox. He tears open a packet with his teeth. “Here.”

A small smile as you take it from his slack grip. Electric blue like the way he shocks you with his touch.

The sugared ice slides right down your throat and soothes the fever in your fingertips. A clatter of the visor’s mirror slides open and Natasha looks at your reflection before she pushes her glasses up again.

Bucky is already returned to his side, staring out the gaping window, hair rushing over his beautiful face.

-

She did it on purpose.

Worse than the slew of personal questions to pass time on a long drive.

Worse than the idea of possible bed-sharing—the suggestion that turned you hotter than the solstice itself until you ducked your head behind Steve’s seat.

Natasha has purposefully arranged for a stop at dusk.

A little cabin by the lake, overgrown with wildflower and cattails, buzzing alive with nighttime insects and the siren call of gentle waves. Three single beds. Irritatingly odd-numbered.

Natasha suggests a swim before disembarking and how can they say no?

Steve dives in first, stripped down completely to his boxers. He’s been burning up, he says. Can’t stand it anymore. His blonde head looks ash-brown in nightfall, breaks the water with a joyful gasp and then he’s off, streaking through ink with long strokes.

“Come on!” Natasha’s fireside voice rings with invitation as she wades into the deep.

Dragonflies hover over their sopping heads. Under the rising moon she grins dazzlingly. A gesture from her pale hand before it wraps around Steve’s chest and he glides off with her pressed to his back, sharp profiles catching dim refractions.

On the dock, you warily dip your feet, waiting for a little privacy to stoke your confidence.

The night air is sludge and heat. Humid and thick. Sweet like molasses warming in the oven. You want to tumble in, too. Desperate to flood the oppressive weight of perspiration out of your pores, but the luggage is still in the car. There will be no towel to conceal your modesty afterwards. Who knows where the keys are.

A creak of the wood panels alerts you to his arrival. Bucky is quiet when he sits, one knee pulled up to his chest while the other leg slinks down by your side, ankle brushing yours in the water. A pleased sigh rolls through him at the temperature.

There is discomfort. His foot retreats with the shift of your atmosphere. Always too itchy in your own skin. Afraid of being seen, noticed, thought about. He’s good at hearing your silence. Good at reading your language.

Bucky hums a patient tune, leans back on both palms and you watch the moonlight drape his bare chest like a shroud. Glowing the palest of blue as if it’s transmuted from the hue in his very eyes. He slips in before turning back to where you sit.

“Will you swim?”

He glistens like a god come to drown you in the sweetest of dreams. It makes your heart plummet to its death on the heels of his departure when you shake your head.

-

They float lazily around each other while you lie on the dock, contemplating under Orion and Canis Major if the next swath of clouds might be enough cover. Your tummy quivers at the thought, memory from the car ride mounting together with dread.

Next to Natasha, you feel little more than an eyesore. Hair never settling right, body too little or too much in places, complexion dotted with flaws and scars and how could—

“Hey.”

He’s peering up beneath the slits of wood, single cyclops eye finding you through a perfectly sized hole. You turn on your tummy and blink, looking back down. “Hey.”

A blue marble floating in the lake. A glittering star in outer space. He blinks at you from one end of the telescope. You blink back from the other. And then Bucky pokes his finger through the groove and skims your eyelashes with a gentle brush.

A scrunch of your nose and you sit up with a giggle, quieting to listen to the noise of laughter and conversation in the distance. Steve and Natasha are far off. Bucky wades back up to grab the edge and yanks himself out, muscles flexing as he lifts effortlessly. Cool trails drip off his shoulders and plunks on your exposed knee, frayed edges of your shorts catching wet.

He is dewy with moonbeam. Beautiful in his summer skin.

Soft and aglow, squeezing the water from his tresses, he looks over at you.

Your breath rushes out like a current as Bucky turns, reaching in slow-motion, or what feels like it as your blood thumps in your ears. The first button of your sandy linen shirt squeaks through its eyelet. He’s close. Nose nearly touching your cheek, hair centimeters away from your jaw.

The wind gusts by, lifts wet tendrils of his locks onto your newly exposed collar, pulling forth a shudder. Under the night, your goosebumps prickle alive, stinging your chest with apprehension.

“Did it get to you?”

He’s careful with the next one, tugging on the fabric just so, keeping his head still, eyes focused on the task at hand. You can feel his breath on your shoulder and wring your hands nervously in your lap.

“A little.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“Yeah.”

The personal thing. The question that clung to you worse than the sticky aftermath of sweat. The settling realization of something unrequited. _Have you ever been in love?_

And everyone else said, _yes_.

The slip of your shirt from both shoulders draws your attention back to him, fingers faithfully working on the last clasp. Bucky swallows when he looks up, softness sweeping over his features at your expression. A lopsided smile begins to bloom first on the left side, then the right until it becomes the perfect symmetrical curve you adore.

His fingers brush over your bare collar, down your arm. Not the first time he’s helped you undress. Missions with bullet wounds in your side have seen to that practice more than once. Destroyed all the magic an intimate moment could have had with the ripping sounds of your suit between his panicked hands.

But there is magic, now. Suddenly. Mid-June under a cacophony of sizzling wings. A slow swelling of it like the crest of a wave as it licks your ankle, asking to submerge you entirely.

Bucky places his hand on your chin, a light stroke of his thumb and pointer, and it feels like a firework. Scorching hot, igniting every nerve ending alive. He doesn’t wait for either protest or approval. Instead, he slides back into the darkness, extending only his hand. The surface glistens like a beacon, slivers bouncing light over his eyes. His left shoulder even brighter.

_Have you ever been in love?_

You wanted to say yes. _Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course I have. He’s right next to me and of course I am._

“Will you swim?”

A gulp. Nerves caught like an enormous dry pill stuck in your throat, but both feet dip slowly. The water reaches your calves soon enough, and then you’re moving to the edge, arms shaking not from holding yourself up, but from the fear.

He splashes forward, laughs a little because you’ve still got shorts on. Treading effortlessly, one hand reaches under your thigh, arm bent ninety degrees to sit you into the lake.

Down, down, until the both of you are submerged to your shoulders, limbs keeping bodies afloat with gentle motions. The heat leaks from every single pore, melts right into the waves oscillating from two suspended bodies. He strokes the wet hair from your forehead.

Shyly, with his hand still by your ear, eyes glowing the deepest of blues underneath the night, he whispers, “I would hang the moon for you, you know that?”

And it’s just his way, isn’t it? To smile and wait, look so peaceful while your heart howls for him. To say _I love you_ without ever having to say it at all.

_You alright? Will you swim? Did it get to you? Have you ever been in love?_

_I would hang the moon for you, you know that?_

Summer skin and magic. A mess of freckles on your shoulder and back, and Bucky traces them with his eyes and fingers. Steve and Natasha race each other to the shore and scoops clothes into their arm. “First come, first serve on the beds!”

With a holler, they tear away, feet padding over the grass and dirt.

The too much or too little, soft flesh or not, flaws and scars drop into the depths when Bucky splashes you with a sweep of his hand. Returning the favor, the wave you push forward crashes over his head and then the fight ensues. The lake is disturbed with shrieks and sputters—you, ducking under to grab his legs, him, pulling you up to kiss your mouth.

Briny. Wet. Lake water and spit exchanged, Bucky holding you close so that the current between churns balmy with his heat. Then, a parting.

“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

He quiets your worries with his lips once more. A low purr.

“Stay awake with me. Won’t need to fight over it if we don’t sleep.”

A press of his stubble to your neck and then more kisses follow. You don’t quite know what it means, this affection. Transient poetry, at least. Requited love, if only.

The last stop of Arizona is the punctuation mark on your time with the Avengers. Returned to the human world with an ailing father and two younger sisters. Your closest friends fulfilling your parting request: a road trip. A single human artifact to herald the beginning of your civilian life.

Only a few more hours until the car brakes and he’s gone for good. Back into the fray.

Only a few hours until sunrise. You’re counting them along with your heartbeat.

Under the moon, his eyes sparkle like gems.

“Stay awake with me.” Bucky pleads, linking fingers through yours in the darkness. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

His quiet way, his patient way, his careful way. Loving you without loving you. Telling you without telling you. Secret languages finally understood through the crackling channel of static.

-

The axels squeak when Steve pulls into the fast-food drive-thru. Try as you might to stay awake, to watch him a little longer, the rocking lullaby of the car on a highway road is too much to fight.

Morning broke over the treescape early, shone white and livid into your tired eyes. Steve found the two of you lying on the dock, fingers entwined and in conversation at the end of his morning run. Grinned down his sweat-slick nose and jerked his head in the direction of the car. Bucky tapped on your hand, pulled you up with him, and let you shower first.

The intercom sputters to life—a young boy’s voice greeting mechanically but trying nonetheless to adhere to southern hospitality best he can. Your neck is stiff and aching, but you can’t bring yourself to fully wake. Against his shoulder, Bucky’s shirt rubs your cheek, smelling like the compound’s crisp detergent.

The morning is warming, chasing away the night’s cool salve. The first filmy layer of sweat begins to condense on your brow. Steve orders four breakfast meals but your stomach sours at the thought of grease. A tiny groan as you ponder it, stirring when the car lurches on toward the window.

The arm around your body shifts, fingers stroking your elbow lightly.

“You alright?” Soft. Quiet. A language only for you.

A shake of your head, because you’re not. He smiles into your hair, scrubs his growing beard playfully over your scalp. Bucky leans slowly, keeping you steady against him, reaching beneath his foot where the icebox sits. A crinkle and a tear. He spits the plastic from his teeth.

“Here, sweetheart.”

Another kiss pressed to the top of your head and you don’t know if you should laugh or cry when he places the popsicle against your lips. Like yesterday, it’s blue.

Blue like his summer skin under the moon. Blue like the salt pooling in your eyes. Blue like how you’ll miss him.


	2. Winter Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, you see him again in time for the New Year.

It’s cold.

December reaches your childhood home in disappointing periods of drizzling rain hitting windowpanes, fogging the insides gray with the house’s heat. Brief winter winds ice the city, never quite enough to flurry like how it did in New York.

Yet somehow, it feels colder here.

You bundle up all over when it sinks into your bones. Blankets and two pairs of wool socks, knitted hats and gloves indoors, still rattling, falling lovesick and not participating in festivities.

Your sisters chide the melancholy, ask you to cheer up, tell you it’s the most wonderful time of the year incoming. Tinsel and allspice, brown sugar candles and the crisp snap of pine. A real tree propped up by the fireplace, topped by a burning red star.

You miss him.

The ornament glows his sigil and, you miss him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. Miss his damn shadow.

Thanksgiving had tasted like wet sand. The turkey and cranberries a mush of pulp. Basting and seasoning, rosemary and garlic, rubbing all manners of things down with butter… and in the end, no matter how you tried, the last six months crumbled like ash in your mouth.

Your father’s illness and subsequent recovery bloomed relief but it was still too soon. There was one more round of radiation and _then_ , it would be over. The cloak of death could finally be ripped down, hung up elsewhere to shrivel and flee; he’d finally be free of cancer.

Six months after sweltering summer kisses on a dock and you were still sick with longing for Bucky. He calls rarely because your civilian life can’t bleed into your hero life; you’re the only one with family—the only one with a possible hostage situation.

Two conversations, maybe. With his low timbre saying _hello_. _Don’t know when I’ll see you, but I’ll dream of you until I do._ And the sadness in your gut volleys into hope—careens itself into balmy spring and the taste of his tongue on yours. The only reprieve you receive is in darkness, when you might be lucky enough to find him under a clear June sky, the two of you meeting in the middle of a midnight yearning.

The days between Christmas and New Years smear together. A foggy mess of unknown hours and habits, waking and sleeping all blurring into some kind of purgatory overcrowded with glazed ham leftovers and candles with names like Twisted Peppermint and Merry Berry.

A steaming mug is slid over the frosted windowsill on the 30th. Your youngest sister plops down on the sofa seat with a hum, pulling striped red and green sock encased knees up to her chest. Mind-reading. That connection between siblings.

“You go.” She states casually, and it takes you by surprise. “Dad’s doing well. You go. World needs you and all.”

Under a heavy quilt, you’re already quivering with preemptive heartbreak. A sip of your drink and the beginning of a protest before she puts up her hand, “We’ll be fine.” Then, a smirk and a roll of her eyes, “Figures. You finally fall for a guy and he’s probably Captain America.”

You bite your smile down and stay silent.

-

Voicemail. Even the automated tone repeating his phone number before the shrill beep gives you butterflies. War drums echoing from your chest. The practiced message you ran through your head sounds stupid no matter how many times you rehearse it. No matter how many times you’ve dreamt of him and this moment.

“H-hey… I, uh, I’m heading to the compound. Uh. Well, I think I’ll be there in time for tomorrow night’s party. Can’t wait to see you, Buck.”

A string of the dumbest syllables ever known to man.

-

The commons room is aglow when you arrive. Soft and brilliant in orange and yellow, warming up the darkness of dimmed lights. There are at least three trees on your way in, lit up with gold, then blue, then silver for the third, overflowing with ribbon and sparkling garland. Hand-blown glass ornaments refract a rainbow array of hues. There is fake snow in a trail flanking the velvet red carpet running inside, shaped meticulously so that it imitates a snowbank to perfection. Soft music hums from deeper in, harps and violins, and the smell of the fireplace crackling spiced woody notes soothes your bones.

Pepper’s outdone herself heralding in the New Year. You’ll have to apologize for dripping water all the way in, pelted by snow and shuddering head to toe.

It’s flurrying in New York, alright. Your chattering teeth are a testament to the temperature.

Natasha’s the first to see you by the entrance. A raise of her champagne class and you grin shyly, stepping in, wet boots tracking to the bar. Steve beams and rushes across the room, nicking off his conversation with a fan in the middle, throwing his arms around you for a hug.

“He’s in D.C.—does he know you’re— Christ, where’s your coat?“

You shake your head and quiet your trembling as you take in Steve’s pressed denim shirt and his slacks and hair neatly combed to one side. Clean shaven and handsome, twinkling eyes as he holds tight. Your shoes are dripping onto his and you chuckle, “I forgot it—too eager, I suppose.”

The gown you pulled on at the airport is an old one—silvery lavender with thin trails of sparkling tinsel. Worn once during an undercover mission near New Mexico and then hung up to sway limply in your sister’s closet because it was too beautiful to discard even though it smelled like gunpowder. The excitement of your arrival was too pressing that you’d forgotten the right shoes. Boots it is—black and clunky, the kind you’d prefer to have on in a fight.

“He’ll be mad you’re not dressed for the weather.” A silly grin as if Steve’s hiding a secret. Then, a single raise of his sandy brow as he looks down. The gossamer hem a darker purple as it sways over your shoes. “But maybe you can go barefoot for tonight.”

-

Sam is elated when he arrives, pulling you into a spin before his hand clasps onto yours and he sways all the way to the middle of the dance floor. It’s like you never left as he chatters on, making you laugh and cry, his steps goading the band to play faster accompaniments.

Three songs in and you’re reminded of how tired you are from the trip. Your feet are freezing on the tile and so you lead Sam to the couches, accepting a drink from Natasha’s hand before leaning into her, tingling toes tucked beneath your thighs. She plays with your hair, rubs your shoulder, and whispers that it hasn’t been the same without you.

“I remember this dress. We got into some trouble that mission.” And you know that look even without seeing it. Half-smirk, eyebrow up, the Natasha trademark.

You laugh at the memory. Gunpowder from her Beretta and the skirt hiked up to reveal your own pistol strapped tightly to your thigh. Beneath it had been a knife. Overkill, you’d thought, but it came in handy anyway.

“James will appreciate your sentimentality.”

The two of you had played lovers, and it was easy slipping into the role. Your heart flutters at the memory and how nervous you had been when his hand caressed yours at the auditorium entrance. He had bent over and whispered that you looked beautiful, and you snorted in return—a broken noise of disbelief.

“We missed you.” Natasha blows into your ear playfully, “You won’t believe how annoyingly long he sulked. If he’s not here at midnight, you’re getting a kiss from me.”

“Woah. _I’m_ gonna kiss her.” Sam protests, leaning forward dramatically.

You turn to Steve with a grin, waiting for his bid but he only puts his hands up, palms faced outward. “Not me. I’m not trying to get into any fights with Buck. Had enough of that for a while, if none of you remember.”

A few more minutes of chatting and you dismiss your friends, shooing them back to their company and unwilling to take up any more of their time.

New Year’s Eve and you certainly can’t be the most interesting person here, you say. Check out the band, gosh, there’s a celebrity—and Tony, sweeping in with gusto to shoot a comment about how he didn’t even notice you were back but that your room is still in pristine condition, _if_ you were wondering.

And you _weren’t_ , but you thank him anyway with a wink.

11:50 and the back wall is glaring a projected image of the NYC ball drop. You stifle a yawn behind your hand, leaning over the couch lazily. Guests come and go, welcome you back, and you’re always a little startled when another stranger flits by to say hello and thank you. Everyone blurs together in a rush of sparkling cream gowns and silk suits.

11:55 and your eyes are shuttering close, cheekbone resting upon your palm.

11:58 and a hand is skimming up your arm, softly prodding, but you’re too tired to move.

Cheers and whoops. It’s so loud. Music crescendoes, Natasha placing a peck on your cheek along with a blanket over your shoulders and you reply with a wilted little smile. Then, you return to a familiar sweetened coffee black dream of someone tall and soft-spoken.

-

You jolt from the stupor with a gasp. The room has emptied and darkened, only lit by the soft glow of the projector spinning starry images. The blanket from your shoulders has slipped off some time ago, gathering to pool at your feet. Blinking sluggishly, you realize you’re no longer leaned against your palm on the edge of the couch.

Dusky pine and leather. Faint cool aftershave and the vital heartbeat of warm boy. Something heavy and buttery soft draped over your previously cold shoulders.

Another dream.

Yet, it feels more corporeal than ever before and the drumming in your chest strikes a thrilled beat. Your hands wildly pat him up and down, drawing forth his sweet laugh at your antics. You don’t stop, though, running up the neoprene vest, the straps buckled over his torso, his strong jaw and chin. Then hair, those long chestnut strands lightly curled at the edges, grown a little longer and tucked loosely behind his ears.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, honey.”

You bristle in disbelief, distracted by the realization with some embarrassment that you’ve been sleeping on top of him for who knows how long. Stupid syllables stuck like caramel chews in your mouth, welding your teeth together in a solid disappointment. After spending six months dreaming about seeing him again, now you’re finally here and you’ve got nothing to say. Bucky lifts his chin to place atop your head, pressing kisses down and chills race to your fingertips and toes.

“Nat said she kissed you at midnight,” Bucky muses, and you can just _hear_ him smiling how he does when he thinks he’s done something clever. “And what about me? _You owe me a kiss,_ unless you’re all done with kissin’ for the night?” His gloved finger traces your chin, thumb pad rubbing over your nose, lifting your gaze until you’re staring up into his eyes.

Blue, blue, blue, like milky ways dipped in a cerulean sea. Behind his head the cosmos continue to spiral, outlining him in silver and starlight. He is beautiful in the night, brighter than suns. You want to sob and say _Bucky, Bucky, if I’m sleeping don’t wake me._

Cheekiness snuffs itself out as he tilts his head with a smile, eyes roaming over your expression curiously. A statement begins in the silence of his thumb caressing your cheek, then brow, then making a path down to your bottom lip, skimming over the edge.

He punctuates it with a press of his mouth to yours. Hand moving to latch onto your jaw, then neck, then cradling your head between two and your heart hurdles all the way to the finish line.

“Missed you.” He murmurs, “Missed you a lot.” Licks to your lips and you vaguely wonder when he learned how to sweep you completely off your feet. Bucky tugs on the lapels of his jacket around your shoulder, crushing your torso to his. After six months of longing and anguish, you could float away if he wasn’t holding on so tightly.

“You look beautiful. Always thought so.” Fingers rub the lavender tulle and he smiles. You didn’t believe him then, the night Bucky complimented you and yanked the knife from its strap. “Like a dream.”

Now, you know he means it.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

Bucky pulls you fully into his lap, solid beneath your hands and flush against your torso. Real. Real. Real.

Winter rages on outside. Wrapped up in him, here, now, finally, you’ve never felt warmer.

“Happy New Year, Bucky.”


End file.
